


Good Graces

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Makeup Sex, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have "make up sex".  For a prompt: <i>Sherlock and John. Having sex. With the lights off. Under the covers.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>It takes only a few seconds, just the amount of time for Sherlock’s arm to wrap around John’s body, and then their puerile argument from earlier in the evening is forgotten.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Graces

 

 

 

Just past midnight.  
  
Experiment’s done.  
  
Signaled by the click of light switches under Sherlock’s fingers and the creak of stairs under his feet. He slows near the top of the steps and hesitates just inside the doorway to their bedroom. One bedside lamp is still lit. John’s lying on his left side, rolled far away from the dim, golden glow.  
  
Sherlock frowns, seeing the stern hunch of shoulders which John has somehow managed even in sleep.  
  
Sherlock finally moves, shedding the warmth of his dressing gown as he goes. One more click and only the lights of Baker Street remain to conjure shapes out of the darkness.  
  
Sherlock lifts the covers to slide underneath them. His side of the bed isn't cold, not really, but it feels unpleasant where he is just the same.  
  
His eyes adjust until he can discern one shadow from the next, until he can follow the contour of John’s faint silhouette. Then the covers rise once more as he pulls them taut to shift towards John, who hadn’t gone to sleep too terribly long ago but is already warm in the bed. Sherlock presses his chest to John’s back, curls forward until his nose touches John’s hair. It’s overdue for a haircut in John’s opinion. Sherlock reaches up with his right hand to slide his fingers through the length of the disheveled strands.  
  
“Mmm,” John mumbles, ascending out of sleep. Sherlock withdraws his hand, slides it back under the covers and down John’s arm and then starts to retreat to his own side of the bed. John turns his head to whisper over his shoulder, “Hey.” Sherlock can feel John lift his elbow a little, inviting Sherlock’s hand to slip under it.  
  
It takes just a few seconds, the amount of time for Sherlock’s arm to wrap around John’s body, and then their puerile argument from earlier in the evening is forgotten.  
  
Sherlock relaxes and sighs into John’s hair. He feels John lean into him, feels the heat of John’s back through the layers of their t-shirts, feels the curve of John’s buttocks against him through John’s boxers and his own pajamas.  
  
And then sleep is forgotten as well.  
  
Sherlock raises his head, pushes up onto his left forearm. He rests his chin on John’s shoulder and sweeps his hand down John’s torso. He lifts the hem of John’s t-shirt, slips his fingertips just inside John’s boxers. He feels the flex of John’s stomach under his palm, feels the waistband go slack over the back of his knuckles as John draws in a sharp breath.  
  
John smiles in the dark and exhales. “Hey,” he says again, more like a chuckle.  
  
Sherlock sets a smirk in the crook of John’s neck. He slides his hand deeper inside John’s underwear, keeps it inside as he draws his hand up and back towards himself, over John’s hip and back down to smooth his palm over John’s arse.  
  
John slides his right hand out from under the covers, reaches over his shoulder to push it into Sherlock’s hair. John says, his tone rough with the remnants of sleep but soft with humor, “You’re still a complete git.”  
  
Sherlock's smirk strains to hold in a laugh. He breathes warmth across John’s ear. “I am,” he agrees, and slides his palm farther down the curve of John’s arse, his fingertips grazing the back of John’s thigh. He adds, sincerely, but with his voice pitched down in a seductive drawl, laid low like an assassin, “And you’re still a saint among men.”  
  
John spots that sultry danger lurking in Sherlock’s baritone. He charges into it head-on. “Not entirely true. But I'll take it,” he says, his words made light by his unseen grin.  
  
Sherlock kisses John’s shoulder and murmurs, “A saint with an aptitude for creative swearing.”  
  
John snorts quietly at that. “You give me plenty of chances to hone my skills,” he says, and sways into Sherlock’s body.  
  
“You're quite welcome,” Sherlock says, which leads to an “ow” when John tugs his hair as a retort. Sherlock moves his hand again within the confines of John’s underwear, slips it once more up and over John’s hip then down to brush the backs of his fingers lightly against John’s hardening cock.  
  
John pushes forward into Sherlock's touch. He feels Sherlock’s kisses move up his neck towards his ear, and his breath thins out as he says, "Bit obvious, this."  
  
“Hmm?” Sherlock asks, the tip of his nose nudging the back of John’s ear, his fingers still taunting.  
  
John twists slightly, turns farther into Sherlock’s body, still twining his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, “Your ploy to get back in my good graces.”  
  
Sherlock says, _innocently_ , as he places a kiss below John's ear,  "I don't know what you mean, John.  But just out of curiosity, how...” Sherlock mouths the words hotly onto John’s earlobe,  “...might I go about doing that?  Theoretically." He adds a tease of teeth before continuing, "Care to give me an idea?”  
  
A tingle sparks low on John's spine from the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth against his ear. He sucks in a breath as he feels Sherlock’s fingers finally curl around his erection. “Oh, I think you've got the idea already,” John says, and turns his head to take the kiss Sherlock has at the ready.  
  
The kiss is restrained for barely a second, then steps blithely right past graceful into greedy and uncontrolled. They’ve spent the past few hours withdrawing from one another. But now that strain and stretch of their connection only serves to pull them back together in a spectacular collision, irritation buried and reborn as lust.  
  
Sherlock strokes John's cock a few more times, then slips his hand back out of John’s boxers far enough to start pushing them down John’s hip. John’s hands and legs move to help, and soon his underwear is wound around his calves where it’s hooked by Sherlock’s foot and shoved the rest of the way down and off and out of the way.  
  
Sherlock breaks off the kiss, strips off his own t-shirt and tosses it behind him before slipping his arm back under the covers. He pivots John away to slide his hand up under the back of John’s shirt, which he pushes up in gathers towards John’s shoulders. He exhales raggedly and impatiently crowds his naked chest against John’s bared back, wrapping his arm around John again to grasp for his erection.  
  
A space briefly opens up between them as John reaches up and rounds forward a little to finish the task of removing his t-shirt. He feels Sherlock’s pajama bottoms rub against him and he reaches back to grab and pull at them blindly until Sherlock stops and removes them in a rush.  
  
Then they’re pressing back into one another, everywhere skin to skin at last, already breathless and frantic. They both know it won’t last long, and neither want it to, the need to reinhabit each other far too great, and the almost searing surge of swift arousal much too pleasurable to restrain.  
  
Sherlock pushes back up onto his forearm and looms over John’s shoulder, the better to kiss and be kissed, his right hand once more firmly on John’s cock. John twists his body into Sherlock again, just enough to turn his head so his lips can find Sherlock's, his hips straining forward into Sherlock’s fist. John feels the length of Sherlock’s erection pressed against his buttocks, rutting and smearing in shallow thrusts.  
  
There’s very little talking now, mostly moans low in their throats and exquisitely coarse kisses that are all the more lurid for never quite hitting their mark. Only in the spaces between do they speak, but even then their words are fashioned from too much desperation to be complete.  
  
Heat is building around them, between them, held fast to their bodies by the covers which keep the world out. That stored warmth soon dips to just the side of too much, but they can’t do anything about it, _won’t_ do anything about it. It would mean upsetting their rhythm, and neither of them deem it worth the loss of the sweetly-converging ache their writhing is creating.  
  
Another sure stroke of Sherlock’s hand, and then another, and then _just one more_...  
  
...and John is gone, spilling out a moan that gives way to “ _Sher–_ ” and “ _yes_...” before falling away into trembling breath. John shudders, forces his body to uncoil, reaches back over his shoulder and turns his head slightly, his fingers finding Sherlock’s sweat-damp hair. His cheek meets Sherlock’s parted lips as Sherlock pants against John’s skin.  
  
“Come on, Sherlock...” John gasps, drawing away a little, rolling farther onto his side to allow Sherlock more movement. His hand drops down from Sherlock’s hair and dips back under the covers again to reach back and grasp Sherlock’s hip and pull him into an even tighter grind against the cleft of his arse. “Come on... come all over me...”  
  
“ _Fuck_...” Sherlock gasps in John’s ear, and ruts against him harder, faster. John releases Sherlock's hip to capture Sherlock's hand where it’s grasping slickly at John's waist. John brings it to his mouth, sucking two of Sherlock's fingers inside to ride the wet glide of his tongue. Sherlock pulls back a little to lower his head and breathe helplessly into the nape of John’s neck.  “ _God_...” Sherlock moans, as  John works Sherlock’s fingers in and out of his mouth. Sherlock thrusts, and thrusts, _and thrusts_...  
  
...he comes, warm pulses across the small of John’s back, a tense curl of fingertips upon John’s lower lip, a faint scrape of teeth on John's neck.  
  
They remain folded together for a time, then pull away from each other enough to push the covers down a bit and usher in a little cold air. They lie there and breathe, until the warmth of each other’s bodies feels oh so much better than the once welcome chill. There’s dealing with sticky hands and backs and fumbling in the dark to recover lost clothing. There's muttering about wet spots on sheets and laughing that bends around yawns.  
  
Sherlock rolls over onto his side, sinks into the familiar scent of their shared bed. He reaches back to tug at John's shirt, and John follows him, releasing a sigh against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. John tightens an arm around him and murmurs, his voice made soft again by impending sleep, “Maybe you're not a _complete_ git.”  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes in the dark and smiles.  
  


 

 

 


End file.
